


Love Token

by macabre_monkey



Series: More Precious Than Pearls [1]
Category: The Last Herald Mage, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Angst, Boys in Skirts, Dress Up, Gender Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabre_monkey/pseuds/macabre_monkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Why can’t I just make myself be what I’m supposed to be? </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Token

**Author's Note:**

  * For [typhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/typhe/gifts).



Vanyel sighed with relief as he closed the door to Lissa’s room. Lissa’s room was hers and hers alone; their only sister was still too young to leave the nursery, and none of Treesa’s fosterlings wanted to share a room with _the hoyden_ , as they called her, and he was sure they probably called her less polite things now that she was gone—not that she’d ever cared what they thought or said, behind her back _or_ to her face.

He knew it wasn’t right to come in here when Lissa was away and hadn’t invited him, but there were too many people about in the south courtyard, and he didn’t dare try to sneak into his attic hideaway. And he didn’t feel up to dealing with his mother; Treesa was still fussing over his now-healed arm, and at the same time getting more and more demanding about his music—his hand wasn’t strong enough to be able to play yet, but nothing was wrong with his voice—and if he had to so much as _think_ about one single line from “My Lady’s Eyes”, he would probably bash her over the head with his lute. And the way her ladies and fosterlings were acting, one would think they’d never seen a male before in their _lives_ , and weren’t likely to ever again. 

He just wanted some peace, damnit. And he wasn’t going to find it in Treesa's bower, or in his own room, or any-damn-where else in the keep. Lissa wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t have even if she was still at home and not gone to foster at Lord Corey’s. 

It was funny how even though Lissa had been gone for months now, her room still felt like she lived in it. _Probably because she never went to much trouble about decorating it_ , Vanyel thought. He went to the bed and flopped down on it, remembering countless nights he’d snuck in here to confide whatever childish troubles he had to his older sister. 

_Our lives would probably be a lot easier if we more like each other._ The thought came on him sudden and unprompted. Now that it was in his head, though, he turned it around, inspecting it, and realized a very obvious truth with a humorless chuckle. The two eldest Ashkevron children had clearly somehow gotten mixed up; how and why it had happened, he had no idea, but there it was. Lissa was _the hoyden_ and Vanyel was—whatever he was. He rolled onto his stomach and felt his face flush hot. Another memory; he and Lissa playing dress up, a decade ago in this very room. He didn’t even know why they’d done it, it had just seemed silly that it was all right for girls to wear breeches sometimes, but it was never all right for boys to wear a dress.

Father hadn’t shared the sentiment. 

When he was younger, people had often remarked how much he favored his mother. He guessed most people around Forst Reach knew now how much Father hated hearing that, because it hadn’t happened for a while. Lissa told him that a few times, when he was _really_ little, people had even mistaken him for a girl. 

_Why is that? Why is Lissa the way she is, and why am I the way I am? Why can’t I just make myself be what I’m supposed to be?_ No answers were forthcoming. His gaze traveled the room, seeking something to distract him from his unsettling thoughts. His eyes lit on the wardrobe. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he got up and crossed the room. His hands settled on the handles, and he felt a moment of guilt for snooping— _why, it’s probably empty, anyway_ —and opened the doors.

It wasn’t empty. Hanging on a peg, both a rebuke and an uncomfortable reflection of his earlier thoughts, was a dress. The same plain, dark green dress Liss always wore to holy day services, which was about the only time she could be coerced into it. 

Hesitantly, he reached out a hand to the fabric, feeling the texture of wool and linen where their mother’s dresses would be made of velvet and silk. Liss, stubborn as always, bending to their mother’s demands for propriety at temple, but only just far enough. He even remembered when Lissa had first got the dress, she spent most of the night picking out as much of the embroidery around the neckline as she could. Treesa, subtle as ever, had ordered the tailor to add extra embellishments without Lissa’s knowledge, still hoping for a marriage for her oldest daughter instead of a Guard commission— _as if a bit of oh-so-carefully placed embroidery to draw attention to my supposed assets is going to make a damn bit of difference,_ —Lissa had snarled.

Van doubted she had simply forgotten it; she had left it behind as a statement, one final rejection of the path Treesa had tried her utmost to lead her down.

He took the dress off its peg, shaking it out and holding it up to get a better look at it, and he caught his reflection in the polished bronze mirror hanging on the inside of one of the wardrobe doors. His feelings were still tangled up, but his mind was curiously blank as he held the dress up against his body. He stared at himself for a moment before throwing the dress back in the wardrobe and slamming the doors.

*** 

Every time Vanyel thought about what happened that morning, he felt a hot flush of shame, and yet…he couldn’t help remembering. It ate at him the rest of day and well into the night, the juxtaposition of him and his sister. Lissa was a girl but she acted and dressed more like a boy, and he was a boy and—he never could bring himself to actually think the words, instead remembering his brief reflection. So after he was certain everyone was settled in bed, he snuck out of his room and back to Lissa’s.

The dress was still lying in a heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. He set his candle on one of the shelves and picked it up, shaking out some of the wrinkles. He looked at it for a long moment, willing himself to just put it down, walk away, and forget about this passing bout of madness. Yet, he held the dress up against his body, and slowly raised his head once again to look in the mirror. Instead of fleeing from all the disturbing feelings his reflection caused, he made himself _look_.

He really did look like his mother. Biting his lip, feeling a spike in his heartbeat, he set the dress down and took off his shirt, and pulled the dress over his head. It wasn’t one of the elaborate gowns Treesa wore that required the help of a maid to get into; it took only a few shakes and tugs to get it settled and straightened out, the bottom few inches pooling at his feet. 

He turned his head from side to side, comparing what he saw in the mirror to his mother’s ladies. Maybe with longer hair and something to fill out the chest…

Then he thought about how he would look in one of his mother’s gowns; maybe that sapphire one with the trailing sleeves and the silver braid. He could imagine it so clearly now, with some of Treesa’s jewels dangling from his ears and around his neck, a touch of kohl around his eyes and rouge on his cheeks, he could probably pass as one of her ladies, maybe even surpass some of them.

He could see it, really see it; him walking into the great hall after supper, the hush that would follow as everyone stopped and stared, wondering who the newcomer was. The girls would cluster together, gossiping, and the boys…oh, the _boys_. They would be tripping all over themselves trying to impress him. He flushed again, not really knowing why that thought pleased him so much.

Vanyel lifted the hem and took a few steps back, the swish of fabric around his legs strange but thrilling. Feeling very silly, he curtseyed.

 _This is ridiculous. If anyone catches me, Father will know about it within a candlemark, and he’ll have Jervis beat me half to death. Again._ But instead of taking the dress off, he rummaged around in the wardrobe. Lissa never wore jewelry but that didn’t necessarily mean she didn’t have any. His search provided him with a single strand of tiny freshwater pearls, and quite a few embroidered handkerchiefs, with the embroidery ranging from terrible to indifferent. The sight of them brought a smile to his face. Lissa was truly their mother’s despair as much as he was their father’s. The only difference was Treesa had finally given up on changing Lissa. He rather doubted Withen would ever do the same.

The handkerchiefs gave him an idea, though; wadding them up, he stuffed them down the dress, but the misshapen lumps would never pass for real breasts. Pulling them out, he instead folded and rolled them carefully, and yes, that was better. The dress had a relatively high neckline, so they were perhaps passable. The pearls around his throat completed the effect.

He preened in front of the mirror for a while, pulling his hair away from his face, or over one shoulder, or piled up on his head. Then he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and he darted forward, blowing out the candle and holding onto the doors of the wardrobe with white knuckles, fearfully wondering if whoever was in the hall had seen the glow from under the door.

The footsteps passed, and he let out the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. Fumbling in the darkness, he took off the dress and hung it back up, and carelessly shoved the handkerchiefs back in a drawer. He pulled his shirt on and cautiously opened the door, hoping like hell whoever it was had been on his way to bed.

He was almost back to his room when he ran into the source of the footsteps, his cousin Radevel. He stopped, but before he could dart back around the corner and wait for him to leave the corridor, Rad heard him and turned around. Before Vanyel could even say a word—not that he could have managed more than a squeak with his heart wedged in his throat—Radevel let out a low whistle. 

“That’s some love token, coz,” he chuckled and winked, and went on his way back to bachelor’s hall, with a satisfied gait that told Vanyel he was returning from a successful tryst. 

_Love token?_ Then Vanyel clutched at his throat—at the string of pearls he’d completely forgotten about in his panic. _Oh gods._ By the time he made it back to the relative safety of his room and collapsed on the bed, he couldn’t tell if the hysterical noises he was choking down were laughter or sobs.

Once he’d calmed down, he idly rubbed the pearls between his thumb and index finger, wondering if it was worth the risk of trying to return them. Probably not, he decided. Getting up, he took the necklace off with a regretful twinge, and put it in his trunk, buried way down at the bottom.


End file.
